


Light this Bed on Fire

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin: The Animated Series, Disney - All Media Types, Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: Abuse, Disney crossover, Disney slash, Domestic Violence, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, aladdin/jim - Freeform, jim/aladdin, jimladdin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: I have adored the crossover pairing of Jim/Aladdin for a very long time, and was inspired by a few of the amazing shipping vids on YouTube. This was painful but cathartic to write and was also inspired by the lyrics.https://youtu.be/b-ebWUqbe40https://youtu.be/EkxFtGK_wqMhttps://youtu.be/gMq5MROK1DA





	Light this Bed on Fire

I don't know what time it is, but it's morning to us.

It's grown too hot to sleep, with that desert sun flooding every window and doorway, and I might as well get up. And after splashing some cold water on my face, finishing off the last dregs of my drink from last night, and throwing on some pants, I grab a broom to start cleaning up. When the anger is gone in me, I can do that: clean up, I mean. I've grown used to doing that. Shattered plates, flung in anger, just mean shards I have to sweep up before one of us cut our feet, and seeing the sharp remnants, the clothes thrown around, the crack in the door where I slammed it a little too hard, I wonder if it's worth it, the fighting, if it means I have to do the clean up the next day.

I come into the room where you are sleeping. We slept apart, naturally, but tonight, it will be different. I know it will be different. You'll come softly padding into my bedroom, or I'll be in yours, that certain smile my invitation. I know our routine, by now. 

You passed out on the floor, and fully dressed, too, in all your princely attire, and I scoff a little at that. I come over to wake you up, maybe not gently, but I am stopped when I realize how nice you look like that, your mouth softly closed (not yelling at me, not asking of me), your dark-lashed eyes closed as well, resting lightly against your cheek. I expect you to be sweaty, sleeping spread out in the morning sun, but when I lean down and run my hand through your hair, it's just as soft and thick as usual, and the gesture makes you stir. You rise up slowly with a groan, and rest your head in your hands before looking at me. Do you know I'm still here, though I told you I wouldn't be? Does your head still hurt from the drinks, from the tears, from the screams? 

You notice me, finally, and give me a small smile, a soft "Hey", which I return.

The silence comes, and comes uncomfortably, when your eyes move past me and see the overturned table, the broken window, the mess on the floor, silent, inarguable proof of yet another fight from last night. Did you forget? Is that the source of disappointment in your eyes, and why your lips now press in a frown? Don't remember to be mad at me...

"Hey, don't worry about it, I'm getting it cleaned up." I joke with a forced smile, and hold up the broom as proof.

You're not convinced, and that fact tires me. The fact that your thick, black brows drop in concern, and I can see you literally working yourself up again, tires me.

"Hush baby, speak softly, tell me you're awfully sorry  
That you pushed me into the coffee table last night  
So I can push you off me"

"Jim, maybe we should talk about this."

"It's fine," I insist, sweeping harder, more intensely, than before. 

You sigh (oh so self-sufferingly, right?) and rise to your feet, coming towards me hesitantly, yet with arms outstretched.

"Look, I know we both said things we didn't mean, but I'm willing to forgive you if-"

"Oh, how noble of you." I sneer, irritated at the course of the conversation. If you'd just let it drop, we could make the most of the day, we really could. 

Your brows snap down, and your teeth flash in your sarcastic reply.

"Yeah, start another fight, that'll solve everything!"

I throw the broom down to the ground, turning on you to give you a shove, and you fall back down on the pillow you slept on. Standing over you, this way, I feel like maybe control can be regained, that I can make you see my point.

"Start another fight? I didn't even start the first one! But it's convenient, isn't it, that I'm the bad guy, so we don't have to talk about you-"

Your face registered the barest amount of shock when you hit the ground, but you get back up in a hurry, and I am reminded yet again that I don't enjoy your height over me. (I used to tell you it was more for me to love, my tall, gorgeous prince) 

"Me?" you ask incredulously. "What did I do, exactly, Jim?"

"Play innocent, you're good at that."

You throw your hands up, making a sound of disgust.

"If you're going to be like this, there's no use in even talking to you. It was stupid of me to try." You turn away from me, and somehow, the sight of your back angers me further, and I snatch your arm.

"Don't turn away from me," is the only thing I can manage. In my mind, it's a plea. Don't turn away from me, don't give up on us, on me. But all you can hear is the anger. I wish you'd hear past that, but you never will.

You look down at my hand around your wrist like it's a snake, and shake it off in one quick gesture. The disgust hurts me, and I pause long enough, breathe deep enough, to push the irritation aside, for now. I hold my hands up in placation.

"Okay, okay. Listen, we'll talk if you want, okay, just not right now, I have a headache." 

You consider me with a hard gaze for moment, but it passes and you give a short laugh. 

"I think you mean a hangover."

I laugh, too, glad to laugh. 

"Yeah, maybe," I admit. You move to go past me, to get washed, to get dressed, I don't care, because I don't want you to leave yet. I stop you this time with my hand at the back of your neck, and you follow the gesture (I love that you always do know where I want you to go) and you lean down to kiss me, and I bring my other hand up to your face, to bring you further down as I relish the kiss. 

The shards, the glass, the mess, it's worth this. 

"Try and touch me so I can scream at you not to touch me  
Run out the room and I'll follow you like a lost puppy  
Baby, without you, I'm nothing, I'm so lost, hug me  
Then tell me how ugly I am, but that you'll always love me"

Sometimes, it's you that tries to kiss me after a fight, and sometimes it doesn't always work. 

Sometimes, I'm sick at how you look, how you are.

Last month, last week, I can't remember, we were supposed to meet at your place, and you weren't there. I sat around, trying to keep occupied, but I ended up like I always do, sitting on your balcony, watching the skies for you and counting just how late you were. 

And there you were, sailing home on that rug of yours, and you jump off to tumble gracefully onto the balcony in front of me. You're smiling and breathless and glowing. 

"Hey Jim."

My lack of reply doesn't dent your enthusiasm (sometimes I love that about you; sometimes it's grating) and you throw out your arm, sending your cape off your shoulders and displaying your outfit more fully. 

You look good, but the problem is, you know you do. 

With that white, gleaming outfit on your rich dark skin, pillowing out for effect at your wrists and ankles, clinging to your slim stomach and thighs for my eyes, you are impossible to not admire. You are proud that your wiry, hungry body, calloused and worn, can be clothed so well in clothes of finery. 

But maybe the problem isn't that you know you look good, but that you thought you did, until I say nothing in return, and your smile becomes unsure and awkward, and you cough.

"So, um, what do you think?"

It's a vulnerable moment, and it feels clumsy in my hands, and I botch it, but I won't be ashamed.

I laugh and come over to you, flicking the purple feather of your hat off your eyes, 

"A little peacock-esque, don't you think?" 

You laugh abashedly, and snatch the hat off your head, embarrassed for the feather and jewel on it, 

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I thought so, but it was a gift, and I thought I'd wear it for y-"

Ah, there it is. 

I interrupt you.

"A gift?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess, from Jasmine?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, from her, and her father, I guess."

"From her." I correct, pining you from wheedling out of this one.

"What does it matter?" You are defensive now.

"Nothing," I shrug, "I just find it funny you're still getting gifts from a supposed ex girlfriend, or whatever the hell you two are."

To my dismay, this doesn't rouse you to further anger, and it's not that I want you to be angry, I want the truth, even if it has to yelled out. No, you don't get angry. Your eyes soften, and the look I can't stand is there: pity. Don't fucking pity me. I feel stupid now, stupid and jealous. And that's how you see me, I know. 

You smile, and your head cocks at me.

"We are exes, you know that. It's just a gift," you are trying to be placating (Am I some wild beast, then?) "If it bothers you, though, I won't accept anymore. I just wanted to look nice for you."

That thought piques my ego, and I come back from the dark place I was headed. I laugh, and hook my finger in the collar of your shirt, tugging it forward. 

"Ha, you think all this impresses me? I couldn't care less what you put on."

You look down at my finger against the bare, heated skin of your chest, and back up at me, and I can tell from the intensity of your gaze that you are falling again, falling back in love with me, and I've got you truly listening to me this time.

"Yeah, and why is that?"

I'm confidant, and the words fall out of my mouth from behind a grin,

"Because they are just going to end up on the floor anyway."

You laugh, charmed, and give me a friendly shove back inside.

"Come on then, at least feed me first, or did you manage to cook something edible at all?"

And six or seven drinks into the night, I feel like that's the way the even will head, the way I want it to head. I feel warm, and carefree, and lean back into the cushions piled up next to the table. I managed to cook something all right, some stew I threw together, because hell, after drinks, everything tastes good. 

You're laughing about something. I can always make you laugh like this; it feels good to be able to do that. Alcohol loosens your tongue and body, and it loosens, too, the hold on my mind, though I am quiet as thoughts are let free to wander about you, as if you aren't aware of my eyes on you. 

God, you're beautiful. It's sick and ridiculous to what extent. And I have you for myself. In this little room, in this little house, we are everything. Just us against it all. 

My head is swimming as I lean forward in a sudden move, my hands fumbling and striving to pull your shirt free from your belt, you making a surprised noise and falling backward as I succeed and my hands go up your stomach and chest uninhibited. 

But the surprise fades, and sleepy smile is on your face when I pull my lips from yours, and your back is arching into my hands from my what my fingers have done to your flesh. 

When I want you, I want you instantly. Not a second later will do, and I don't prefer to talk. 

But you do. Or at least you do tonight.

You talk in a caramel voice, over my shoulder, my face in your neck as I push you back down to the floor. I am kicking off my shoes, and I try to ignore it. 

"What's the rush Jim? Do you want me that bad?"

You'd like to hear me say yes, but I won't, not ever. I try to distract you, twist your nipple a little harder than I should, and you gasp in a way that bares your teeth, but it must of felt good too, and you watch pleased as I shuck my shirt off above you in a hurry. I'd kiss you to shut you up, but I don't want my mouth near yours, don't want your words inside me. 

"It feels good---I feel good." You're not making any sense. Did I get you too drunk? Did you get you too drunk? Your legs fall apart in a graceless tumble, and I am between them, trying to tug your pants down, but you won't cooperate with your hips to get them down. I huff in irritation, and you pull my face up, to look at yours.

"Come on Jim, " you dare with a smirk, "Tell me you want me."

"I'm not playing this game."

You laugh and crane your neck up to try and kiss me, but I dodge, making you laugh again.

"Why not?"

I pull my face out of your grasp, and sit back, away from you, leaving you half undressed and debauched on the floor,flushed and hard and glassy-eyed. 

"Because it's stupid."

Because if I tell you how much I want you, how much I always want you, not just your body, not just your presence, but the whole damn you, then it will be out there, and I can never take it back. Because you might laugh. Because I don't want to go chasing after no one. 

"Why's it so important to you?" I ask. I am irritated the night might be destroyed, that I might be going to bed physically and emotionally frustrated again. I blame it all on you. I tell you that with my eyes.

Yet you are not perturbed, you are not put off, and you are not stopped. And I can't help but be surprised at how nimbly you slide your pants off and roll over to crawl in one movement. Your eyes have gone completely black in the irises, when usually the are infused with honey brown, and I know that look. That's my look-- for me. 

But the smile is off, it's too...confidant. What are you trying to be, in this moment, as you make your way over to me on hands and knees? I can't complain, though, when your hand reaches for and engulfs my cock, jutting up from my half open fly. Fuck, your hand is warm. I am loosing myself in it, the sure strokes of your palm up and down me, the warmth of your breath on my face, but out of my half closed eyes, I see your hand go to pluck your discarded turban from the floor next to you, and drop the whole thing, feather and jewel and all, atop your head. 

You speak to me.

"I don't know," your voice is playful again,but you are slipping the truth to me in it too, hoping that this way, it will go down easier. "Maybe it's just kind of nice to know that I do this to you," Your thumb rolls over the head of my dick, and my leg jumps, and I curse and worship the little laugh that comes out of you then. "Come on," you cajole, your hand a clever pumping and twisting embrace on my organ, "just say you want me."

I might, I just might, to feel your strong legs wrap around me, to watch you scream under me...

"Just say you love me."

My eyes snap open. 

What?

The spell is broken and you couldn't be prepared for my reaction. 

You! ---trying to manipulate me like that, like some...like some whore! It was disgusting. 

I shove you hard off my lap.

"Get the fuck off me."

I tuck myself back into my pants and stand over you, you- gaping up at me.

"Say I love you and what? You'll let me fuck you?"

The words, said that ugly, plain way, hurt you, and I am glad, because it felt ugly and plain in my mind. Your mouth moves frantically, red going to your face, and I can see anger building, but mine is stronger.My fire with suck the oxygen from yours and consume it. 

"What the fuck was that Aladdin? What was that bullshit?"

Sprawled out on the floor, pants around our ankles,shirt hiked up your chest, lips red and hat askew, you look smaller. But anger is making you taller, and you shove your pants back on, to hide yourself from my own angry eyes. 

"All I was trying to do-" you start, but I cut you off.

"Was what? Make me say I love you?" I laugh, and I see you flinch at the tone of it, "That's pretty pathetic."

You stand, and your face is twisted in rage. I hurt you deep, and your fists are curled at your sides. What no one else sees, except me, is that in your angry moments, in your fights and defiance and scrabbles and even your triumphs, it's tears, not fire, that make your eyes shine. But you won't shed them, not for me, not anymore.

I see you try to form a better retort, "Yeah, well I wouldn't have to try if you-" you start righteously. But you stop, because you see the smirk on my face. If I what? Told you I loved you? Shared my feelings more? You know what I'd say, you know the insults I'd hurl, and though I never get the chance, you hear them all the same: accusations of weakness, femininity, and naivete. 

You make a rough, choking noise, and for a moment, I think you might cry, but that's before I felt the explosion across my face when your fist caught my cheek....

"then after that, shove me, in the aftermath of the  
destructive path that we're on, two psychopaths"

You hit hard, and I have to remember, that though you are soft and bending for me, you are a fighter. I grunt in my pain, white flashes disrupting my vision, but I blindly swing out, and hear your cry as my open palm smacks across your cheek with a residual snap. Your hair falls loose over your face, and your stare at me, caught up in the moment just as I am even as the red mark grows on your skin from my blow. I catch your eyes, unsurprised by the unshod tears there, though surprised by the amount of anger residing there too. 

Your arm reels back, fist curled, but I catch it this time, intending to pin you, stop you, hold you down. I've done that before, and it ends the fights, even after you fight and curse under me, even if I have to slap your face a couple times, it ends the fight, but you know that move, and counter by jabbing your elbow up into my chin.

Shit.

Blood fills my mouth for a moment, and I fall back, and you follow, with a shove, backing me up against the table. Under your fiery gaze, I wipe my mouth impatiently. I won't be a victim to pain.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, Jim? What's wrong with me?! What's wrong with you? You're such a fucking jerk." 

"Is that right?" Fine, say what you feel like you have to say.

"Yeah, it is. You ruin everything, you do Jim. You're sabotaging everything we do or could have. What is it, do you not want to be in this anymore, is that it? Then why don't you just leave, if this doesn't matter to you anymore?" You laugh a small, unsteady laugh, and put your hands to your chest. "Why don't I?"

"Don't threaten me with that”, I snarl. “If you’re going to leave, go then. There’s the door.” I gesture coldly towards it.  
And there it goes, just like I always dread, the change in you, when the anger fades and something else takes it place, pity, or its equally ugly cousin, concern. And that is concern in your face, as the anger fades like a weak flame, and you stare at me intensely, searching persistently for the answer I won’t give you.

“Is that what you really want, Jim?”

You come closer, and somehow your approach with your arms down, your fists lowered, is more threatening than an actual physical attack.

I don’t remember making the decision, I really don’t. I know I remember, during your whole speech, curling my hand around an empty platter behind me, gripping it behind my back. But I don’t remember deciding to whip it out and bring it hard across your face. I do remember, however, staring as you wheeled backward, holding your face, then crashing messily to the floor, holding up your hand to your bleeding mouth.

I was angry and satisfied with the blow at first, but as you lay there, hot blood and hot tears pouring into your fingers, though you are not actively crying, I can’t help feel like I just broke it all.

Numbly, I reach out my hand, to pull you to your feet, and you look at my hand just as coldly and disgustedly as I have ever seen and spit a wad of blood to the floor, before getting up on your own.

“Fuck it, I’m out of here.”

I manage to stay still, to watch you as you grab nothing at all, none of your belongings, and make for the door, for the last time.

Shit, shit shit shit. I curse and rub my hands furiously over my face. What have I done? I can see it all, crumbling.

I start to run, and manage to catch you before you completely leave the patio, and wrap my arms around you tight from behind, resting my cheek on your back.

“Where are you going?” I ask harshly.

You muscles stiffen under me, and I can feel the desire in you to physically push me off you.

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Jim, let go of me."

You fight in my arms, trying your hardest to twist out of of my grasp, my life. 

"Jim, let go! I'm leaving!”

“No you’re not!” This time I yell it at you. I push you up against the door frame, this time careful to mind your bruised face, but firm enough to keep you there. You are taller, and your muscles are ropey, but I am denser, and work out more actively than you do, and I manage to keep you there even as you buck and curse. In a panic, I shove your pants back down, hand skating down the small of your back to find your crevasse with my fingers, my fingers finding a hole softened and still damp from the sex we had earlier.

Your protests stop with a choke, and restart again in a more embarrassed tone as my fingertips play with and tease you, my face buried in your shoulder.

“Jim, stop, don’t-”

I tell myself you feel like you have to say that, that you don’t mean it, because as I push inside, as I crook my finger and rub inside you, you push back so insistently, wantingly, and the panted, unintelligible syllables come pouring out your mouth as I stretch you wide again, those noises that make my dick throb and my heart choke my throat.

You aren’t protesting anymore, unless my name is a denial.

I shove into you, and you slide up and down the door, falling into a half crouch, fingers failing to find a grip on the solid wood door, hips cantering wider, head lowered and mouth open.

You can’t leave me, you can’t.

I am saying that, as I fuck you, but I don’t think you hear me, I don’t think you hear anything at all, save your own cries. And that’s fine. If I can pull you back again, that’s fine.

"know that no matter how many knives we put in each other's backs  
that we'll have each other's backs, 'cause we're that lucky"

Later, we are again lying on the floor, in a tangle, sweaty and oily and broken as people, but satisfied. My arm isn’t even tight around you, because I am no longer afraid you will leave. It was awkward when I tossed you the wet towel to wipe the blood off your nose and chin, but I made a joke about not wanting you to ruin your pretty face and you took it and laughed, so I was relieved. You made more of a big deal about the blood stains on my collar from your elbow-blow, but I brushed you off, preferring to lay silent in the blackness, piled on top of each other.

I know why I stay, for sure.

I stay for moments like this. I stay for the feeling of adoration I get from you when romance gets the better of you and you go to great lengths to please and treat me. I stay for the laughs, the adventure of the both of us racing into the sky, the feelings of pride in me when I taught you to ride my sky-board and I learned to ride your Carpet. I stay for when we actually make love, and our lips don’t leave one another save for air, and there’s no talking because there isn’t a need to talk. I stay because of how small I feel when you are gone.

I wonder, though, why you stay.

Is it for this, the fights and sex afterward? The feeling of excitement? Does it fill some need for you to stop being the courting and start being the courted, to have me taking the reins? Or is for the cute little dates, the illusion of a normal romance?

You’re like me I think, in a lot of ways. We are both angry about something that has made us feel small and stupid in the past. It can’t be helped, then, these disasters, when two such forces intermix.

I don’t really care what your reasons are. If I can help you remember them, if I can fight to keep you here, I don’t need to know.


End file.
